


these days, life is better

by biblionerd07



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Illegal Activities, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Prison, Romance, Sunburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Ian realizes Mickey is the most romantic guy on Earth.





	these days, life is better

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly and fluffy with a splash of feelings. They're just really in love, okay?

“You off tomorrow?” Mickey asks one night. It’s July, and they’ve been here, together, out of prison, for nearly eight months now. They live with Debbie and Franny and Liam, and Carl when he’s not in school. Yevgeny comes to visit most weekends. The house feels as full as it ever was, just with different people now.

But now Ian’s not sure they’re going to make it through the summer. It’s too damn hot. They’re lying in bed with all the sheets thrown on the floor and two fans blowing on them, totally naked and too hot to touch each other. They took over Fiona’s old room, but Ian’s ready to go sleep on the living room floor just because it’s slightly cooler downstairs.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “You are too, right? What should we do?”

Mickey rolls onto his side to look at Ian. “I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Where?” Ian asks.

Mickey shakes his head. “You’ll see.”

Ian can feel a grin taking over his face. “Mick, is this a surprise?”

Mickey makes a face. “Sure, if you want to make it sound like we’re middle school girls.”

Ian snorts. “You know _anyone_ can have a surprise, right? There’s not an age or gender limit.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says. “You in or not?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ian says, mock-serious. “How can I be sure it’s safe? Seems like a rough guy like you might try to take advantage of me while I’m off-guard.”

Mickey laughs at him. “I was planning to take advantage of you,” he admits. “Was really hoping you were planning the same thing.”

Ian can’t hold back his own laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, sort of serious this time. “If it stays this hot, I don’t know if I can take it.”

“Nah, I took care of it,” Mickey says dismissively.

Ian rolls his eyes. “You took care of it?” He echoes “You took care of what? The weather?”

“Would you just fucking trust me?” Mickey demands.

“I do,” Ian says, all hint of joking gone. “Mickey, you know I trust you.”

“Jesus, okay, I know,” Mickey assures him. “Don’t need to go all death-voice on me.”

“Death-voice?”

“Yeah, the voice you use when you talk about death. All serious and shit.”

That makes Ian laugh again. “I didn’t realize I had a different voice that I used to talk about death.”

“Well, you do,” Mickey says. “Now shut up and go to sleep. We’re going early in the morning.”

“Goodnight to you, too,” Ian huffs, reaching across the mattress and kicking Mickey lightly.

“Kick me again and see what happens, Gallagher.”

Well, that’s a challenge. So Ian does it. What happens is Mickey rolls over _on top of Ian_. Not even in a sexy way. He just steamrolls right over him and then rests all of his sweaty weight on Ian. Ian shrieks in a highly undignified way that would embarrass him if anyone but Mickey were here to hear it.

“Mick, it’s too fucking hot!” Ian protests, all muffed from Mickey’s shoulder. “Get off.”

“I already got off,” Mickey reminds him with a leer. “And I’ll move when you promise to shut up and go to sleep.”

“Okay, I promise,” Ian says. Mickey stays there for another second, just to be an ass, and then he rolls back over. Ian knows he’s pushing his luck, but he turns his head to look at Mickey and says, “I love you.” He braces himself for another onslaught of sticky, damp skin. He peeks an eye open in time to see Mickey roll his eyes, a tiny smile on his face.

“I love you, too,” he says. “Now shut the fuck up.”

Ian laughs, but he does what he’s told.

  


Ian always has to set two or three alarms in the morning. He used to be able to get up right when his first alarm went off, but the meds slow him down a little. Not as bad as when he was first adjusting and felt like everything was underwater, but noticeable enough to warrant extra precautions. He doesn’t bother feeling bad about it anymore. It is what it is.

But on days when he doesn’t have to work, he usually just sleeps until he wakes up on his own. He slaps off his alarm to take his meds. Not much chance he’ll forget when Mickey leaves them right by his face in their day-by-day case. Today, Mickey wakes him up. And whenever Mickey has to wake him up, he does it the same way. It’s not a soft, gentle wake up. He runs his fingers through Ian’s hair, which is soft and gentle, and then he smacks Ian’s ass and says,

“Up and at ‘em, Gallagher.”

“What time’s it?” Ian asks blearily.

“It’s after nine,” Mickey says. “I let you sleep in.”

“What time did you get up?” Ian asks, scooting over to reach Mickey’s face for a good morning kiss. Mickey’s already dressed. He may have even showered.

“Can’t fucking sleep past seven anymore,” Mickey grumbles. “Stupid fish job.” He works at a seafood market out on the waterfront, chopping off heads and tails and gutting fish for ten hours a day. He hates it and it makes him smell terrible, but the pay’s not bad. He has to be to work by five most days to get the morning catch taken care of before customers come in, so sleeping in is sort of a distant dream.

“Aw,” Ian commiserates. “Guess I should’ve worn you out more last night.”

Mickey huffs. “You wore yourself out. You didn’t have another round in you.”

Ian snorts. “If you’d just give me a little more time! I’ll always find another round for you.”

That finally makes Mickey laugh for real. “Freak.” He says it like a term of endearment. “Bring your pills. We’re stopping to get breakfast on the way.”

“Where are we going?” Ian asks.

“You’ll see,” is all Mickey will say. Ian can’t hold back a smile. Mickey’s just about the only person Ian trusts to give him a good surprise these days.

“Whose car is this?” Ian asks when they get outside. He and Mickey certainly don’t have a car.

“Borrowed it,” Mickey says with a shrug.

Ian huffs. “Borrowed?” He asks skeptically.

“Borrowed!” Mickey shoots back defensively. “I didn’t steal it.”

“Who’d you borrow it from?” Ian asks.

Mickey sighs. “Svetlana.”

Ian snorts. “So now you’re going to her for money instead of the other way around?”

Mickey opens the door and shoves Ian inside. “Quit being a dick.”

“How’d you even ask her?” Ian asks, laughing a little. “Like, did you tell _her_ where we’re going?”

“Yes,” Mickey says shortly, because he can already tell Ian’s going to tease him about it.

“She gets to know and I don’t?” Ian says. He gasps, big and dramatic. Mickey’s staunchly ignoring him now, except for the way he’s rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He focuses way more on driving than he ever has in his life. He gets hilariously grumpy when Ian brings up how rich Svetlana is now. Apparently she married some rich old guy while Mickey was locked up, and the guy died a while ago. Ian doesn’t know details, but he’s pretty sure Svetlana had to do some unsavory stuff to get to the guy’s money, but it’s not like she’s never done unsavory stuff before. At least this time she got a big payout for it.

Mickey doesn’t actually have a problem with Svetlana being rich. He’s just mad that she’s richer than he is. She’s helped them out a few times, when Yevgeny’s gone back to her house after a visit and reported the water was off or the dryer was broken. Mickey hates it, but Ian doesn’t mind it. Yevgeny spends time there; it makes sense she’d want to make sure they’re staying afloat. Mickey just hates feeling like he owes anybody anything.

Mickey still sets aside money from every paycheck for Yevgeny. Svetlana’s told him more than once he doesn’t need to do that, but Mickey won’t budge. If she won’t take his cash, he buys toys and candy for Yev, so she’s learned to just take it if she wants it used for anything practical. They don’t have any kind of formal custody agreement, but she’s never made a peep about cutting them off from seeing Yevgeny. Yevgeny would not take kindly to that, and they all know it.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Ian says in a sing-song voice. “I won’t leave you for our sugar mama.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Mickey complains, but Ian can hear him holding back a laugh.

They’ve been driving for nearly an hour. Ian glances down at his phone to check the time. He needs to take his meds soon. Mickey catches the movement and nods.

“Almost to the breakfast spot,” he says. “You could take ‘em now. We’re close enough.”

“Nah, I’ll wait until we get inside and order,” Ian says. “In case it takes a while for the food.”

“They bring toast right away,” Mickey says. “I’ve been here before.” He turns off the freeway while Ian takes his meds. It’s not far before he pulls into the parking lot of a diner. It’s not some greasy-spoon looking place; it’s kind of cutesy, with a logo of a robust woman holding a pie.

Ian blinks at the sign. “Who’d you come here with?”

Mickey coughs. “Damon. On our way…” He shrugs and gestures toward Ian. He means when they drove three hours in the wrong direction to get Ian before heading south, where Ian left Mickey at the border.

Ian blows out a breath. “Okay.”

“Stop,” Mickey admonishes. “That’s not why I brought you here.”

“So why did you bring me here?” Ian asks curiously. It’s getting easier not to wallow in guilt when the subject of Mexico comes up. Mickey says he doesn’t blame Ian, and there are some definite advantages to not being fugitives.

Mickey fidgets a little. He clears his throat. He shrugs. “It’s on our way.”

Ian waits. Mickey doesn’t add anything. Ian huffs. “That was a lot of buildup for not much of an answer.”

“Shut up,” Mickey says. “Come on.” He tugs at Ian’s arm and catches his hand at the bottom, leading Ian into the diner.

He seems kind of…nervous, almost. Ian’s wondering what the hell is inside this diner. But they get in and it’s just a diner. It doesn’t look all that different from Patsy’s, except it’s a whole lot cleaner and nicer. Ian’s confused. Mickey keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye like he’s gauging Ian’s reaction.

They sit down and a waitress comes up right away. “Good morning. You boys want some brunch?”

Ian raises his eyebrows. _Brunch?_ He looks at Mickey, ready for a comment about brunch. But Mickey just nods and accepts the menu she hands him. Ian’s mouth might be open in shock. He waits until the waitress leaves to get them toast and coffee before he looks at Mickey in disbelief.

“Brunch?” He asks.

Mickey shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, you like brunch, don’t you?”

Ian shrugs right back. “I mean, yeah. I’ve only had actual brunch a few times. You remember that photographer guy who had that party we went to before you came out? In that big loft overlooking the city?”

“Like I could forget,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes a little. Ian snorts at him.

“Anyway, he did these big brunches all the time on Sunday mornings. I went once or twice.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah, he seems the type.”

Ian narrows his eyes a little. This is the kind of comment he expected about brunch. “The type?” He asks.

Mickey rolls out his neck. “Uh-huh. Gay.”

“Mickey—” Ian starts.

“Yeah, _we’re_ here,” Mickey cuts him off. He raises his free hand in a _what_ kind of gesture. “Okay?”

Ian’s taken aback. “Okay,” he says, still kind of confused. Mickey doesn’t fight acknowledging that he’s gay anymore—there’s no real point since he came out and everything—but it’s not like he goes around shouting it from the rooftops or anything. Ian didn’t expect any kind of statement out of the blue. And for Mickey, that _does_ count as a statement. The waitress comes back before he can say anything else.

“Don’t worry about ordering yet,” she assures them. “I didn’t give you much time to look yet. Wanted to make sure you got your toast right away.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says.

Ian’s pretty sure he’s looking at Mickey like he’s an alien. Mickey is…being polite. “Thank you,” Ian manages to echo before the waitress walks away. He reaches across the table and feels Mickey’s forehead. “Are you sick?” He raps his knuckles on Mickey’s head. “Mickey, are you in there?”

Mickey bats his hand away. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh. Hey,” Ian says, just now realizing they’re still holding hands. Right there on the tabletop, too. Anyone could walk by their table and see that. Ian hadn’t even noticed. “Whoa.”

“Jesus, do you have to make a big deal out of it?” Mickey complains under his breath, not meeting Ian’s eyes. He’s chewing at his bottom lip. This is an even bigger statement. It’s taken Mickey a long time to get comfortable holding Ian’s hand in public. Hell, it took a long time to get him to hold Ian’s hand in _private_. And it’s still one of the first things to go when they’re in an unfamiliar place or around anyone Mickey’s not comfortable with. But here they are, in a random diner on the side of the road, very obviously _together_ together.

“Uh,” Ian tries. He doesn’t want Mickey to _stop_ , obviously, but he has no idea where all this is coming from. “I don’t—I’m just wondering what’s going on.”

“We’re eating breakfast,” Mickey says. “Brunch. What the fuck ever. Look at your menu and pick something.”

“Okay,” Ian says, warmth rising in his chest. Mickey’s so incredibly uncomfortable right now, but he’s doing this for Ian. Ian squeezes Mickey’s hand on the table and Mickey takes a big breath. Ian’s heart is so full it could burst.

“You better eat some toast,” Mickey reminds him quietly, eyes darting around. When it’s just them, or even Ian’s siblings when they’re at home, Mickey doesn’t watch over his shoulder all the time. He’s relaxed so much; he touches Ian without a second thought now, laughs easily, isn’t so hostile all the time. But that’s in private, around people he knows are safe. The fact that he isn’t hiding holding onto Ian right now makes Ian almost want to cry.

Ian eats his toast one-handed, even though it means he can’t butter it. He doesn’t even care. Dry toast is far from the worst thing he’s ever eaten, and getting to hold Mickey’s hand in public anywhere other than Alibi more than makes up for it.

“So,” Ian says after they order. “Is this the surprise?”

“No,” Mickey says. “Well. I mean—nah, not the big one. This is just breakfast on the way.”

“You got something big planned?” Ian asks, smiling at Mickey. He can’t seem to _stop_ smiling at Mickey. He gets that way when he can tell Mickey’s trying hard.

“Maybe,” Mickey says evasively.

Ian lets it go. But he’s still shooting a little smile Mickey’s way when the waitress comes back with their food. Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand reluctantly and nudges Mickey’s foot with his under the table to replace it.

“Okay, boys, you let me know if you need anything else,” she says. “More coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Ian says. He actually pays attention to his caffeine intake these days, to Mickey’s very vocal relief.

“I want more,” Mickey says. “Later. Um…please.”

“No problem,” she assures him. “I’ll come check on you in a few minutes. You cuties enjoy your food.”

She walks off and leaves Ian laughing into his quiche. “Cuties?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, taking a big bite of French toast. With his mouth full, he adds, “I’m real cute.” Ian almost inhales the bite he just took. He splutters and coughs and gulps down his water. Mickey watches him choke, unimpressed. Some nice guy. “What?” Mickey demands. “You saying I’m _not_ cute?”

“You’re very cute,” Ian promises, cracking up despite his best efforts not to. “I just—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word.”

Mickey shrugs and goes back to his food. “If the shoe fits or whatever.”

Ian’s still laughing about it, but he’s so fond it almost hurts. “Yeah, Mick,” he says, grin stretching so wide it almost hurts. “That shoe sure fits.”

Ian’s not sure what to think when Mickey turns onto a private road. They drive past some seriously massive lake houses. Ian’s given up asking where they’re going, because Mickey’s staunchly refusing to say anything. It kind of reminds Ian of the early stages of their relationship, what feels like a hundred years ago, when Ian was always pushing Mickey to talk and Mickey was never obliging. Ian thinks it probably means he’s fucked up that it kind of brings up a weird sort of nostalgic longing in him. It’s not like he misses Mickey being terrified and hating himself all the time, and he certainly doesn’t miss how withholding Mickey was back then. But there’s something to be said for the thrill he used to get when he could see Mickey opening up even just an inch at a time.

“We’re almost there,” Mickey says, like he can tell Ian’s thinking about how Mickey never used to talk to him.

“Finally,” Ian says. “It’s been three hours of me having no idea where we’re going.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says under his breath. He swallows hard and blows out a breath before turning…into a driveway. Of a lake house. A _big_ lake house.

“What is this?” Ian asks.

“It’s here,” Mickey says.

“Here where?”

“Jesus,” Mickey groans. “You’re begging to know where we’re going, now we get here and you wanna ask questions?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ian says with a little laugh. “This is like a million-dollar vacation house on Lake Michigan. I have some questions. If we’re gonna break in, why this house specifically?”

“We’re not breaking in,” Mickey says. He sounds like he’s not sure if he should be offended Ian assumed that. On the one hand, it probably feels like Ian’s undermining whatever he planned. But on the other, it’s undeniably their go-to for houses like this. Mickey holds up a key ring. “We got keys.”

“ _How_?” Ian asks, floored.

“You know that guy Joaquin I work with at the fish place?” Mickey asks. “His wife cleans houses for rich people.”

“So they let her give their keys out to people?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey scoffs. “But they’re in fucking Europe for the next two months. They ain’t using the place. They got a private dock on the lake and AC.”

“So…we kind of are breaking in,” Ian points out. “They don’t know we’re using their place.”

“You want to go home?” Mickey asks pointedly.

“Obviously not,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. He’s starting to smile now. “You planned a _big_ surprise, huh?”

Mickey makes a face. “Not that big,” he mutters.

“Yes, Mick, it is big!” Ian insists. He ticks off on his fingers as he lists things. “You told Svetlana what we were doing so we could borrow her car, you had to have _asked_ Joaquin or his wife for the keys, we stopped for _brunch_ on the way, it’s a huge house on a lake, private dock, _and_ you know I’ve been dying about how hot it’s been and specifically got a house with AC.”

“All these rich people have AC,” Mickey points out.

“Face it, Mick,” Ian says, unbuckling. “You planned me a big, huge, awesome surprise.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything to that. But as they get out of the car, Ian could almost swear he sees Mickey’s lips ticking up in a smile.

Ian’s stayed in a few places like this; Ned never took him to a lake house or anything, but Ned’s apartment after his wife kicked him out was pretty upscale, and they went to fancy hotels plenty of times. Ian still can’t help the incredulous little scoff he lets out when they get inside. The entryway in this place is bigger than their kitchen.

“Fucking rich people,” Mickey says scornfully. He doesn’t take off his shoes even though there’s a bench and a shoe-stacker thing for that express purpose. He barrels through and heads straight for the thermostat to kick on the AC. “There, princess,” he says with a little smirk. “Happy now?”

“I’ve been happy all day,” Ian promises, pulling Mickey closer and bumping their chests together. He nudges his nose along Mickey’s. “All week, all month, all year.”

“Shut up,” Mickey says fondly. He closes the distance between their mouths and kisses Ian. “Let’s go outside.”

“We _just_ got in a house with AC,” Ian points out. “Now you want to go outside?”

“Rich people houses creep me out,” Mickey says unrepentantly. “Come on, we can get in the water.”

“We don’t have swimsuits,” Ian says stupidly. Mickey gives him a look to tell him he’s dumb.

“You getting shy on me now or something?” He asks dubiously, pulling off his shirt. “Think I don’t know your dick shrinks in the cold water?”

“Still bigger than yours,” Ian shoots back immediately, obligingly kicking off his shoes.

Mickey cackles at him. They leave their clothes in a pile in the middle of the living room and go out the glass door to the private dock. Ian looks around a little nervously. It’s not like he’s never been skinny dipping or anything, but they’re in broad daylight, in someone else’s house. What if the neighbors see them and call the cops?

That’s kind of a silly thing to worry about. There aren’t really any neighbors; no one close enough to actually see them, anyway. Ian tells himself to relax. They’ve got open water and Mickey’s naked beside him. What’s there to be stressed about?

Ian jumps in and whoops when he hits the cold water. Mickey’s still standing on the dock. “You coming?” Ian calls. Mickey shrugs, and Ian suddenly remembers Mickey saying he never learned to swim. Ian pulls himself back up onto the dock. He smirks a little when Mickey’s eyes rove all over him hungrily. “Come on,” Ian says, holding out his hand. “We can jump in together. I’ll hold onto you.”

“No,” Mickey scoffs, rolling his eyes. “That’s fucking stupid.”

“Mick, it’s too hot for you to sit here in the sun and not get in the water,” Ian says.

“So I’ll go back inside.”

“While I’m out here?” Ian asks. He raises his eyebrows and adds, “Naked?”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Come on,” he groans. “I can’t—Jesus. Holding hands and jumping off a fucking dock? What is this, that Notebook movie?”

Ian cracks up laughing. “Are you telling me you’ve seen the Notebook?”

“No,” Mickey says indignantly. “Fucking Mandy watched it every day one summer.”

“So you have seen it,” Ian says triumphantly.

“I’ve seen like one part of it,” Mickey says, which means he probably watched the whole movie but will go to his grave swearing he didn’t. He probably jerked off to Ryan Gosling. Ian knows he did.

“Hey,” Ian says, crowding closer and letting his hands skim over Mickey’s bare hips. “Lots of people jump off docks, you know. Not just in cheesy romance movies.” Mickey rolls his eyes, but Ian doesn’t let him argue. “You planned this whole day, Mick. Come on. Just be stupid and cheesy with me, okay? No one can see you.”

Ian can see Mickey relenting. He bites his lip and looks up at Ian, eyes narrowed. “You gonna go around blabbing about it?”

Ian mimes zipping his lips shut. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Mickey says.

“What, that’s cheesy and dumb too?”

“No,” Mickey says. He huffs and mutters the last part, so quiet Ian almost doesn’t hear him. “Don’t say hope to die.”

Ian gets that swelling feeling in his chest again, the one he gets when Mickey’s being earnest and sweet without necessarily meaning to. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is the same guy who told Ian _kiss me and I’ll cut your tongue out_ , who shook his head and made Ian take his hand off the glass, who spat _you’re nothing but a warm mouth to me_. It’s been a long time since then, with a lot of heartbreak and regret between them, and Ian almost feels like that Mickey was a whole different person. That Ian felt different too; naïve, obviously, but also more self-righteous. Ian’s learned, through the hardest ways possible, that he’s not exactly as hot shit as he always thought.

“What?” Mickey says. He taps a finger against Ian’s forehead. “You just got all dark and shit. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ian says. “Just thinking about how we used to be so young and dumb.”

Mickey thinks that over for a second. “Yeah,” he says.

“I think I was dumber than you,” Ian says. “I thought…I thought everything would just be okay. Just because I wanted it to work out. You knew it wouldn’t.”

Mickey sighs. “Hey, we’re here now, huh?” He shakes his head and grabs Ian’s hand, tugging him to the edge of the dock. “You’re just fucking playing me, aren’t you? Pretending to be thinking too much so I’ll do this.”

Ian can’t help but laugh. “Wasn’t my plan,” he promises. “But I’ll take it.”

“God, you’re the fucking worst,” Mickey says. His voice is so full of love it makes Ian’s throat tight. Ian swallows hard and squeezes Mickey’s hand.

“Ready?” He asks.

“No,” Mickey mutters.

“One,” Ian says, ignoring him. “Two. Three!”

They jump into the water. Mickey yelps and starts screaming out random combinations of swear words. “Fucking cold! Shit fuck! Holy bitch balls!”

Ian’s laughing wildly. He can barely catch his breath, and he isn’t sure if it’s the laughter, the cold water, or just how giddy he feels at being here with Mickey. After everything they’ve been through, all the times they hurt each other, all the times he let Mickey down, they’re here now, just like Mickey said. And they’re willing to do anything for each other. Even jump in a freezing cold lake naked, holding hands.

Mickey’s kind of clutching onto Ian, because he really _doesn’t_ know how to swim, but Ian’s never going to complain about that. “You want me to teach you how to swim?” Ian offers.

“Nope,” Mickey says easily. “When am I ever gonna need to know how to swim?”

“Maybe when you’re in a lake,” Ian deadpans.

“Shut up,” Mickey says with a laugh.

“Come on, Mick. You’re never gonna let me teach you in public. How about right now? Then you can teach Yev.”

Mickey thinks that one over. “Isn’t it kinda deep? Watch my sorry ass drown. Fucking cops have to drag the lake for my naked body.”

“It’s a little deep just for learning,” Ian admits. “But that’s okay. I got lifeguard certified for ROTC.” He leans in kisses Mickey. “You know I’d never let anything happen to your ass.”

“You let me get shot in my ass,” Mickey points out, unconvinced.

Ian laughs. “That wasn’t my fault!” There are a lot of other things Mickey could bring up, other times Ian let plenty of bad shit happen to him, but he doesn’t. He’s laughing now, too. Ian doesn’t want to bring the mood down again like he did on the dock. He reaches down and cups Mickey’s balls under the water, making Mickey jump a little. “I would never let the police find your naked body,” Ian vows. “Worst comes to worst, I’d at least stuff your dead body back into your pants. No one gets to see your ass but me.”

Now Mickey’s laughing so hard he really _might_ drown. He’s clutching onto Ian’s shoulders, head thrown back as he laughs. He’s so beautiful Ian’s stomach hurts. Hearing Mickey laugh like that, so carefree and happy, always makes Ian kind of choked up. It doesn’t happen very often.

“How do you even teach me?” Mickey asks, which is his way of saying Ian can try.

“Well, you can dog-paddle and kinda tread water already,” Ian says. “That’s good. Here, flip onto your back and float.”

“Whoa,” Mickey says, hand shooting out to grab at Ian’s arm.

“I got you,” Ian soothes, hands under Mickey’s back. “Just look up at the sky.”

“Burning my eyes,” Mickey complains. It makes Ian laugh a little. Trust Mickey to find something to complain about out here.

“Okay, now kick your feet a little,” Ian instructs. He doesn’t really remember learning how to swim. He was pretty young when he learned; the community pool was cheap, and it was a good way to spend summer days out of the house and away from Frank and Monica’s chaos. Fiona used to take them all with a bucket of sunscreen and they’d stay all day.

After about half an hour, Mickey can sort of direct himself in a backstroke. If he’s in any kind of current, it’s definitely not going to do him any good, but at least maybe now he’ll hang out at the pool when Yevgeny wants to go.

Ian’s hands have been getting steadily less chaste with every passing minute. He thinks it would be pretty herculean of him to be able to have his hands on Mickey’s naked body and _not_ keep grabbing his ass and his dick. But Ian doesn’t really want to have sex in a lake. There’s got to be some kind of weird disease they could pick up.

“Want to go inside?” Ian asks, squeezing Mickey’s ass.

“Do I have to swim over there?” Mickey asks, wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist.

“Oh, fuck,” Ian groans. “Mick, not here, that’s gross.”

“So? I’m gross,” Mickey says, dipping his head to bite at Ian’s neck.

“Holy shit,” Ian says. “No, come on, let’s go in. There’s AC in there; let’s use it.”

“Fine,” Mickey says, kind of annoyed the way he gets when Ian makes him wait. Ian’s not sure if that annoyance should bother him. It doesn’t; it always gets him hotter, because it means Mickey’s impatient for _him_. Ian basically just tows Mickey back to the dock, but they didn’t get very far away so it doesn’t take too long. They scramble up and Mickey takes a minute or two to climb on top of Ian right there outside, shoving his tongue in Ian’s mouth and grinding against him.

“Oh, Mick, no, come on,” Ian says breathlessly. The sun feels good after the cold water, but they didn’t bring any sunscreen. Mickey talks a big game about Ian burning bad, but he’s almost as white as Ian is. Fucking right here sounds great right now, but Ian plans to fuck more than this one time, and a sunburn will definitely get in the way.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says, making his way down Ian’s chest. “Just hang on a sec.”

“Fuck,” Ian moans while Mickey sucks little bruises into his stomach. Mickey raises his head to meet Ian’s eyes and Ian can’t take it anymore. He pushes gently at Mickey, stands up, and scoops Mickey up. “Come the fuck on,” he growls, stalking toward the house.

“No fucking way,” Mickey says, pupils blown wide. “Holy shit, we are doing that again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ian says, getting them inside. He doesn’t even bother closing the door or finding a bedroom or a couch or anything. They get into the kitchen and fuck right there on the floor.

Over the last two years, between the thin walls of prison and the thin walls of the Gallagher house, they’ve gotten used to being quiet. Being quiet in prison was a matter of survival, because, as Mickey pointed out, no one could know they enjoyed it _too_ much. Being quiet at home is more a matter of common courtesy and not wanting to scar Liam or Franny or Yevgeny, depending on who’s around. Debbie’s old enough that they don’t really care if she hears them. Same goes for Carl, when he’s home. But they still have responsibilities and schedules and things that need to get done, so even when they’re not being quiet, they’re still kind of rushed.

Right now, they’ve got this whole giant house to themselves. No guards are going to come knocking on the door to get them in trouble. There’s no one waiting for a ride to school, no one fighting in the hallway over whose turn it is to make dinner or do dishes, no one _period_. They make it count.

Mickey’s being almost ludicrously loud, moans echoing through the ridiculously large kitchen, but Ian can’t even call him on it because having as much time and space as they want for the day is beyond perfection. And the fact that it’s cool enough in here to touch each other without sliding off with sweat is the best thing Ian’s felt in months.

They half-heartedly clean up a bit when they finish, not bothering to put clothes on, but Ian’s stomach rumbles so loudly it makes them both laugh in shock.

“Guess we better feed you,” Mickey says, poking at Ian’s stomach. Ian hisses when he pokes at one of the hickeys he just left and Mickey smirks at him wickedly. He did it on purpose.

“Asshole,” Ian says with a laugh.

“Well, you just spent a solid half hour with it,” Mickey says. “You really want more?”

Ian cracks up and shoves him. “I always want more,” he says lecherously. His stomach growls again. Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“You’re not getting in there right now,” he says. “Can’t trust you not to go all Hannibal Lector on me.”

Ian laughs again and drags himself to his feet. He gives Mickey a hand and they survey the kitchen. There’s not a lot of food here; the rich people probably didn’t think to stock up their lake house before they left the country for a few months.

“I don’t think we can order anything,” Ian says, glancing out the windows.

“Ah, come on,” Mickey chides lightly. “There’s plenty here. And we’ve got the leftovers from the diner place. You’re just prissy now. This much food used to last our families a week.”

Ian snorts. “I don’t miss living like that.”

“Yeah, but we don’t gotta share,” Mickey points out. “And I brought some stuff.”

“You did?” Ian asks.

“I fucking planned this, didn’t I?” Mickey demands. “Where’s the bag I brought?”

“With our clothes,” Ian says. “You got cigarettes in there, too?”

“Of fucking course I do,” Mickey says.

“We’ll have to smoke outside,” Ian muses. At Mickey’s raised eyebrows, he points out, “Well, we don’t want Joaquin’s wife to get in trouble by the owners if they come back and it smells like smoke.”

Mickey nods. “True,” he says. “Good thinking.”

Ian ducks his head a little. Even now, after all these years, praise from Mickey still practically makes him blush. Mickey notices, of course, and he snorts. Ian elbows him and Mickey laughs while he opens the backpack he brought with him.

His idea of _planning_ and _bringing stuff_ is a six-pack, two packs of beef jerky, a few packages of candy, and Ian’s favorite brand of cigarettes. Ian can’t hold back a laugh.

“Mickey,” he says. “Beef jerky, candy, and beer for dinner?”

“Excuse you,” Mickey says indignantly. Ian didn’t notice there are also two sandwiches—both really smashed now from being under the beer—and a box of donuts. “The donuts are breakfast,” Mickey says.

“Wait, we’re staying here tonight?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I told Debbie we’d be gone and told Liam to be good.”

“I didn’t bring enough meds,” Ian says, worry bubbling up in his throat. He only brought his morning dose that he took when they got to the diner. He normally brings his meds if he’s going to be gone all day, just in case, but he didn’t know they were going to be gone for so long—certainly not for the night. This means he’ll miss two doses. There is, though, a little thrill under the anxiety that Ian’s ashamed to even acknowledge. Here’s an excuse not to take his meds. No one can blame him for this.

He shoves that feeling away. He needs to stay on his meds. If nothing else, he owes it to Mickey after treating him like such shit when he went off them. But he also owes it to himself. He _wants_ to stay on them. He knows he’s doing better after staying steady with his pills for almost two years now.

“I brought ‘em,” Mickey assures him, and Ian’s heart calms down. Of course Mickey brought them. Mickey always makes sure Ian has his meds. He sets aside a little money from each paycheck just in case Ian ever gets kicked off the poor-people healthcare and they have to pay for his meds on their own.

Fiona and everyone else—they always acted like Mickey was the one dragging Ian off course, making him unstable. Ian even convinced himself of that, for a little while. It isn’t true, though. Mickey’s pushed for Ian to be on his meds for as long as they knew Ian needed them. Fiona and Lip hinted and beat around the bush, but it was Mickey who got Ian to self-commit, Mickey who dragged him to the clinic, Mickey who bought him all those B-vitamins at the pharmacist’s suggestion, Mickey who paid attention to what Ian was eating and how long he was sleeping. When they were in prison, Mickey made sure Ian got a work assignment for the routine and always got him up on Sundays so he didn’t miss breakfast. Hell, Mickey only brought one six-pack for tonight because he knows Ian shouldn’t drink as much as he used to when he’s on his meds. Ian will probably have one beer, and Mickey will have five, and they’ll be the same amount of tipsy.

And beyond the meds themselves, Mickey’s a steady presence in Ian’s life. He wouldn’t even run off and be free in Mexico without trying to bring Ian with him. And then he wouldn’t _stay_ free in Mexico as soon as he found out Ian needed him. Ian never wonders if Mickey’s going to get tired of him and find someone else. He’s never afraid Mickey isn’t going to come home. There is no one on Earth better for Ian’s stability than Mickey.

Ian pulls Mickey close and buries his face in Mickey’s neck. Mickey makes a surprised little noise. “What?” He asks, mouth full of jerky.

“You,” Ian murmurs. “You take such good care of me, Mick.”

Ian looks up in time to see Mickey’s face go pink. “Okay,” Mickey says, unsure.

“Thanks,” Ian says. “I’m just glad I get you. I’m glad you came back and gave me another chance.”

Mickey swallows, eyes darting away. “Okay,” he repeats. “I don’t—I mean…it’s not like I did you some favor. It’s good for me, too.”

Ian kisses him softly. “I’m glad,” he says again.

Mickey just looks at him for a second, eyes a little narrowed like Ian’s confusing him. He kind of shrugs. “Let’s hurry up and eat.”

Ian doesn’t push it. Mickey’s lightyears beyond where he used to be when it comes to acknowledging and talking about his feelings, but that still puts him below average. It’s just a little hard for him to remember to talk about how he feels _every day_ when he grew up never talking about how he felt. Ian’s not going to force him to think about stuff he doesn’t want to, not when there’s no pressing need for it. They’re here and they’re having a good time. They don’t need to get heavy right now.

It’s kind of a weird time to eat, since they had brunch. They’ll be hungry later, too, and Ian will have to eat with his nighttime meds, so he makes sure not to eat all his leftovers from brunch. Mickey takes his food outside and Ian follows him without commenting on how hot it is.

It’s a thing for Mickey now, since getting out of prison for good. He likes to be outside, or at least close to an open window. Ian’s walked into their room more than once and found Mickey sitting on the windowsill, half out the window. He just likes to know he’s free to move around. All his prison time combined, plus his stints in juvie, total out at nearly five years. Nearly five years of his life where he was penned in, contained, trapped. Ian only spent a year and some change inside, between waiting for his trial and his actual sentence, and that was enough to make him a little claustrophobic sometimes. He doesn’t blame Mickey one bit, even if it does mean they’re both going to get sunburned.

They sit in fancy wooden deckchairs and throw Skittles back and forth, trying to get them in each other’s mouths. Mickey bounces one off Ian’s forehead and laughs so hard he almost falls out of his chair. Ian throws one that hits Mickey square in the teeth and Mickey groans, “Ah, fuck, my fucking broken tooth!”

They’re laughing and snorting and sharing a cigarette even though they have a whole pack, and Ian feels so good he wishes he could bottle this feeling. There’s a breeze coming off the water, he’s on a sugar high, and he has Mickey laughing beside him. Fifteen-year-old Ian never could’ve imagined having it this good. Hell, twenty-year-old Ian couldn’t have, either.

“You done?” Ian asks.

“Why?” Mickey asks.

Ian gets out of his chair and climbs onto Mickey’s lap. “That’s why.”

Mickey laughs a little. “Oh, okay.”

“I like this seat better,” Ian informs him, relishing the way Mickey laughs again as his arm automatically wraps around Ian.

“I’m not complaining,” Mickey says easily. They stay like that for a while. And the thing is, they’re not even having sex. They’re just sitting there together. That’s another thing fifteen-year-old Ian never could’ve imagined—not only being around Mickey without having sex, but being _naked_ with Mickey without having sex. Mickey never would’ve allowed it back then, but Ian’s not so sure he would’ve been able to handle it even if Mickey had. Between his hormones and his giddiness over Mickey letting Ian touch him, he was always so wound up and burning with desire around Mickey.

It’s not like his desire for Mickey’s burned out. It’s just tempered now. He’s not worried that every time will be the last; he doesn’t have to store up sexual encounters with Mickey for the next time they’ll be apart. That’s the whole point now—they’re not going to be apart. Not anymore.

“Jesus, you are so in your head today,” Mickey says. His voice rumbles in his chest where Ian’s ear is resting. “I don’t know if you’ve ever sat still without talking for this long.”

Ian huffs. “You know, no one else thinks I talk a lot. You’re the only person who acts like I’m a chatter box.”

“You are a chatter box,” Mickey says, but he’s stroking his hand up and down Ian’s back so it’s hard to think of it as an insult. It certainly used to be, when Mickey was annoyed by how much Ian talked. He doesn’t get annoyed about it anymore.

“Just compared to you,” Ian says. Mickey doesn’t have an answer for that, but Ian finds himself wanting to explain more. “I actually—I mean, I really don’t talk to anyone else as much as I talk to you.”

“Lip and Mandy,” Mickey says. “You talk to them a lot.”

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “But not like I talk to you. I used to…” He laughs a little and squirms around so he can squint up at Mickey. “I used to push it. I’d just keep talking and talking and see how long it took you to tell me to shut up.”

Mickey laughs. “Well, I just tuned you out most of the time. Didn’t even know you were talking.”

“Really?” Ian asks.

Mickey looks down at him and his lips twitch upward. “Nah, not really,” he admits, almost shy about it. He laughs, softer now, and Ian knows what he means without Mickey having to go into more detail.

Mickey was absolutely terrified of Ian when they were younger. More specifically, what Ian made him feel. What Ian made him _want_. He was always snappish because he was expending so much of his energy trying not to let Ian in, until finally he just got tired of the act and cracked himself wide open for Ian. Ian had had his suspicions, because every once in a while Mickey’s façade would drop and Ian would get glimpses of the truth. It was hard to know what the truth really was, though, when Mickey was so convincing in his act. And with Terry running around fucking things up.

“I’m just thinking a lot today,” Ian confesses. “’Bout us. The past.”

“Why?” Mickey asks.

“I don’t know,” Ian says. He puts his head back down on Mickey’s chest. “You’re just…good to me. And it makes me think—”

“Of how shitty I was before,” Mickey finishes for him sourly.

“No,” Ian says. “Of how scared you were. And how I didn’t really realize how hard it was for you. I did a lot of bad shit I shouldn’t have because I was too stupid to get how hard you were trying.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a second. “I didn’t think of it as you doing bad shit,” he says quietly. “You’ve always been the best thing in my life, Ian.”

Mickey doesn’t say stuff like that a lot. But when he does, it always comes out of his mouth so easily. Ian thinks of Mickey breathing hard in the cold air, the way they stared at each other across the sidewalk while Ian broke his heart. Mickey had said _I love you_ and _it means we take care of each other_ and he hadn’t even blinked. And even after Ian left him literally running for his life, Mickey still said he was thinking about Ian, behind a sheet of glass and without Ian even meeting his eyes.

Ian’s started to think maybe Mickey doesn’t say that kind of stuff out loud very often because he thinks it’s a fact—he doesn’t go around talking about how the sky’s blue, either. He probably doesn’t get why he’d _need_ to say that kind of thing out loud. And yeah, it’s not like Ian doubts Mickey’s feelings for him, certainly not anymore. It’s just nice to hear it every once in a while.

Except when Mickey _does_ say it, it’s always so matter-of-fact and heartfelt at the same time, and it leaves Ian choked up. Like he is now. Ian turns his head and kisses Mickey’s chest. “You’re the best thing in my life, too, you know,” he says.

“That sucks for you,” Mickey says with a little self-depreciating laugh.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ian argues.

Mickey shrugs. “You could find someone better,” he says quietly.

Ian pulls himself up to press his forehead against Mickey’s. “I really couldn’t,” he promises. “There’s no one better than you, Mick. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I just want you.”

Mickey closes his eyes. But he nods and tightens his arms around Ian. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

Ian huffs. “Good.”

“You’re good, though?” Mickey checks. “Thinking a lot but not…I don’t know. Pissed.”

“I’m good,” Ian promises softly. “I’m so good, Mickey. This is a great day.”

“Good,” Mickey says again, and they settle back down into the chair.

“Too bad we don’t have fishing poles or something,” Ian muses.

“Why the fuck would I want to go fishing?” Mickey says. “I gotta chop heads off all day, every day, and you think I want to deal with that shit on my day off?”

“We wouldn’t have to eat them,” Ian points out. “Just seems like something you’re supposed to do when you’re on the lake.”

“Huh,” Mickey says. “Thought you were supposed to toss bodies and get the fuck out of the state.”

Ian snorts and pinches Mickey’s side lightly. “You’ve never dumped a body in your life.”

“Wanna bet?” Mickey asks.

“Mickey, I know you haven’t!” Ian says, laughing. “You just spread that rumor around the neighborhood so people would be even more scared of you than they already were. Your dad and your uncles did all the body dumps.”

Mickey harrumphs. “I told you that?”

“Yes, you did,” Ian confirms smugly.

“Guess I talk more than I thought,” Mickey says. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

“That an offer?” Ian asks, making them both laugh.

“Not gonna waste you getting hard on rubbing anything off,” Mickey points out. “I’m either sucking your dick or you’re fucking me. Both, hopefully.” He raises his eyebrows, looking down at Ian. “ _That’s_ an offer.”

Ian laughs, but then it’s Mickey’s turn to pick him up, and Ian suddenly understands why Mickey was so into it. It’s incredibly hot. Mickey just puts him down in the chair and drops to his knees in front of the chair.

“Wait, you don’t want to go inside?” Ian asks, not laughing now. He knows he had objections to fucking out here. He just can’t really remember why.

“No,” Mickey says, and then his mouth is full and Ian doesn’t have a coherent thought for a little while.

They jump in the lake again to clean off, though Ian feels kind of guilty about it. “Does this count as pollution?” He asks.

“I’m more worried about what’s going up my ass right now,” Mickey says, right on the edge of joking and grumpy. “I’m all fucking opened up. Watch me puke up lake water later.”

Ian laughs so hard he almost drowns, and then Mickey pushes him under the water even more. Ian comes up sputtering and splashing and Mickey floats away from him like Ian just taught him. They splash around and wrestle a little, laughing and cursing at each other.

“Ah, shit,” Ian says, holding Mickey’s face in his hands. He brushes a finger lightly over the bridge of Mickey’s nose. “Sunburn.”

“Fuck,” Mickey groans. He examines Ian’s face. “You just look like you got more freckles.”

“I bet it got my ass,” Ian says mournfully. “It feels okay in the water but when we get out it’ll be all sore.”

Mickey snorts. “You think I got any sympathy for you for a sore ass?”

Ian laughs. “I said we could switch!”

“I’m not switching,” Mickey says stubbornly, like he does every time Ian brings it up. It makes Ian laugh some more. He doesn’t have any complaints about how they do things, and Mickey knows it.

“Yeah, heaven forbid you have to do any of the work,” Ian teases. Mickey dunks him under the water again in retaliation.

They go inside when they decide the sunburns aren’t worth it. They both have weird patterns of angry skin; their fronts are okay, since they were lying together. Ian’s back is burnt to hell, but his face is only a little pink, since he had it pressed against Mickey’s chest. Mickey’s nose and cheeks are fried.

“We look ridiculous,” Ian laughs.

“Good luck sleeping for a few nights,” Mickey says, cringing. Ian groans. No matter what position he starts out in, he always ends up on his back. That’s not going to be comfortable.

“I told you we shouldn’t fuck outside,” Ian accuses half-heartedly. He hadn’t exactly been protesting this time.

“We didn’t get burnt from the twenty minutes we were fucking,” Mickey points out. “It was the two hours we were sitting there.”

Ian sighs. “What do you think the chances of there being any aloe in this place are?”

Mickey shrugs. They go on a hunt through all the bathrooms and cabinets. “This stuff?” Mickey asks, holding up a bottle.

“Oh, yes,” Ian says. “This is our savior.”

Mickey laughs at him and rubs some into Ian’s back. He could get his face himself, but he lets Ian do it for him, hissing a little when Ian touches the angry, red skin. Then they go back down the stairs and flip on the TV.

“Big-ass rich person house and they don’t even have cable?” Mickey complains. “Rich people do _not_ deserve their money.”

But then they discover it’s one of those smart TVs, and they turn on an action movie as background noise while they eat some more and Ian takes his meds.

“Gonna be weird to go home and wear clothes again,” Ian comments.

Mickey laughs at him. “One day and you’re ready to join a fucking nudist colony?”

“Sure, if you’re coming with me,” Ian says, making a big show of sweeping his eyes up and down Mickey’s naked body. Mickey snorts and gently shoves at him. Eyes trained forward on the TV, Mickey says softly,

“I’ll always come with you.”

The smile Ian can’t hold back is worth the pain of pulling at his burned skin.

They sleep in kind of late, enjoying no responsibilities and a room cool enough to actually sleep in. But they can’t stay all day; as great as two days off work in a row are, they’ve got shit they need to get done at home. Shit like laundry and bills and cleaning up a little before Yevgeny comes to stay with them in a few days.

They don’t stop at the diner on the way home, but Ian smiles at the exit as they pass it. Mickey catches him and laughs at him, but he doesn’t say anything about Ian being dumb. As soon as they get home, they’re hit by a blast of noise—Franny wailing, Liam and Debbie arguing, the washing machine banging in a way that means someone put shoes in it again even though Ian said to quit doing that.

He sighs a little and looks over at Mickey. Mickey shrugs at him. This is their life. And Ian loves it, really. It was just really nice to run away and not deal with anything for a while. Ian goes over to figure out what’s going with Liam and Debbie and Mickey picks up Franny. He’s getting in the general vicinity of comfortable with babies.

They go back to their regular life—work and getting Liam to school and Franny to daycare, phone calls with Carl, matching up schedules with Debbie, visits with Yev and chores around the house. Sometimes, their work schedules get so hectic they hardly see each other while they’re awake; they’re little more than ships passing in the night. It sucks, but it happens.

Ian’s having a little brothers-only pizza night with Liam and Lip when Lip brings it up. Ian frowns a little when Mickey texts him to say he’s stuck at work a little longer than usual because some new guy made a mess in the kitchen. Ian wrinkles his nose at the prospect of Mickey stinking up their bed like fish guts when he gets home. Even with a shower, the smell tends to linger.

“Trouble in paradise?” Lip asks mildly. It annoys Ian. Lip’s always making little comments. He’s never been quiet about thinking Mickey’s no good for Ian, even though he was _there_ and saw how good Mickey was while Ian was working through his diagnosis and the meds the first time.

“No, Mick’s just stuck at work,” Ian says evenly. No point getting in a fight when they’re having a nice night. Lip will never outright say anything, so Ian can ignore him.

“Feel like he’s hardly around these days,” Lip says.

“He’s around,” Liam says. “He taught me how to forge Fiona’s signature yesterday for school stuff.”

“He what?” Ian asks, unsure if he should be mad about that or not. On the one hand, it’s probably not a great thing to teach a kid, but on the other hand, it saves Ian the trouble of forging her signature himself. She’s still Liam’s legal guardian, and it’s easier in every way to forge it than track down Frank.

“You were sleeping and I needed Fi’s signature for my field trip. He wouldn’t let me wake you up so he just taught me to do it myself. He said only for stuff like field trips and sex ed and bad grades, but if I get in a fight or something I gotta tell you,” Liam assures him.

“Oh, well, at least he has values,” Lip says, straddling the line between amused and sarcastic.

“He does,” Ian says, a little sharper than he meant to. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself he _just_ decided he wasn’t going to bite Lip’s head off. “That’s fine,” Ian agrees. “Maybe tell me about the bad grades, too, though. I mean, if it’s just once in a while and you know you can do better on the next test or something, that’s fine. But if you’re failing a class, you should probably tell us.”

“Okay,” Liam agrees. There’s no guarantee he’s actually going to follow through with it, but at least Ian said it. It feels weird, trying to enforce rules with Liam. He never had to worry about that for Debbie or Carl, because Fiona was the one in charge. And Liam got used to Fiona being in charge of him, too, and then he got kind of used to more or less running wild when Fiona left and Debbie only marginally reining him in, so there was a bit of an adjustment period when Ian got back from prison. They’re doing better lately, though.

“So what, you guys co-parent or something?” Lip asks. He’s not quite antagonizing. He’s mellowing out a little now that he’s been sober for a while and he’s in a settled relationship, but sometimes he doesn’t realize how irritating and condescending he’s being.

“Yeah, we do,” Ian says. “Me and Mick and Debbie all watch out for Liam. And when Yev’s with us, we’re together on that, too. Because we’re _together_.”

“Alright, alright,” Lip says, holding up his hands like he’s backing off. “I guess I just always figured you’d end up with someone who was more into big gestures, you know? Kash and Ned were always buying you shit.”

“Kash and Ned were both pedophiles who needed me to keep my mouth shut,” Ian points out.

“Oh, good, are we allowed to acknowledge that now?” Lip asks.

Ian sighs. “Yeah, I guess.” He’d been the one to say it wasn’t the same as an actual pedophile, but from this side of adulthood, it doesn’t seem so different after all. “And Mickey makes gestures.”

“Yeah, he took Ian for a surprise at a big lake house,” Liam jumps in. “They were gone for two days and when they came back Ian had hickeys _everywhere_.”

“How do you know what a hickey is?” Ian asks.

Liam rolls his eyes. “I’m almost thirteen,” he says disdainfully.

Ian and Lip both laugh at that, though it’s not like Liam’s wrong. They both definitely knew what hickeys were by his age. Lip raises eyebrows. “So, what, a little romantic B and E?”

“We didn’t break in,” Ian says defensively.

“Just thought that seemed like something in his playbook,” Lip says with a laugh. He makes air-quotes with his fingers. “ _Dating Habits of the Frequently Incarcerated_.”

“You know, that would be my playbook, too,” Ian points out. “I was in prison, too. And he made a pretty fucking big gesture when that happened.”

“I guess that’s true,” Lip admits. That’s as close to an apology as he ever gets. “He just doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s romantic in the day-to-day, you know? Not like he’s bringing you flowers or shit like that.”

“I don’t want flowers,” Ian says, hackles rising. He doesn’t get why Lip is pushing this.

“He brings home fish sometimes,” Liam says. “He said he’d bring me a spine for my science project.”

Lip makes a face. “What’s your science project?”

“Animal skeletons. Carl said he’d send me a squirrel skeleton once he shoots one for me.”

“Jesus,” Ian mutters. “He’s gonna mail it?”

“Do we not need to be worried about that just because he’s in military school now?” Lip asks.

Ian shrugs. “I guess at long as he’s not torturing them, right?”

That leads them into reminiscing about some of Carl’s greatest hits from his childhood of exploding microwaves, killing animals, and petty crimes. Liam’s starting to look a little _too_ interested, though, so they change the subject to the new neighbors and how long they’re likely to last.

Ian can’t stop thinking about what Lip said, though, and it prickles at the back of his mind for the rest of the night. He puts Franny to bed for Debbie so she can go out with some friends, he makes sure Liam brushes his teeth, and he sits in front of some random show on TV.

Ian always kind of thought he’d end up with some romantic guy, too. Some guy who brought home surprises that _weren’t_ fish bones, who planned elaborate adventures every weekend. Hell, some guy who took him on actual dates, not just drinking at the Alibi like half the neighborhood does anyway.

It isn’t that Ian’s disappointed, really. He’s the happiest he’s ever been, making a home with Mickey for real. And Mickey has his romantic bursts. Just because it’s not every day doesn’t mean it’s not there. He went to _brunch_ for Ian. He surprised Ian and whisked him away on a trip. Sure, they didn’t have permission to be in the house, and Ian’s pretty sure Mickey got the keys in exchange for some of Iggy’s weed, but still. It was a great weekend. Ian doesn’t need daily romantic gestures to be happy.

He ends up falling asleep in front of the TV. That happens pretty often, since he’s basically an old man now. He just can’t stay up very late anymore. He’s jostled awake after a while, the TV and the lights somehow off, and he’d be worried and defensive but he can smell fish and cigarette smoke and hair gel—it’s Mickey.

“Come on, sleepy face,” Mickey murmurs. “Can’t sleep like that all night. Break your fucking neck.”

“Mm,” Ian grunts, still more asleep than awake.

“Let’s go to bed,” Mickey whispers. He gets his arms under Ian and carries him over to the stairs. Ian can feel little giggles bubbling up out of his chest. Mickey’s carrying him like a baby.

“What’s so funny, chuckles?” Mickey asks. He sets Ian down on the stairs but keeps his arm around Ian’s waist. “Alright, I’ll help you, but I’m not carrying you up all these stairs. Fucking deathtrap. No one picks up their goddamn shit around here.”

Ian’s giggling some more, but he obligingly rests his weight on Mickey and lifts his feet for the steps. Mickey mostly drags him up the stairs and into bed. Ian’s pretty much awake now, but he’s all too happy to pretend to be asleep. This isn’t the first time they’ve gone through this song and dance—Mickey’s going to guide Ian into bed, and he’ll gently tug Ian’s clothes off so he won’t get too hot while he sleeps.

Mickey gets Ian all situated and kisses his forehead. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says quietly. “Get the fucking stink off me. Be right back.”

Ian snuggles into the bed, feeling sleepy and loose and happy. So he doesn’t get candlelit dates and fancy watches and poems. He doesn’t need them. And then he realizes, with a little _thump_ in his chest, that those don’t have to be the only markers of romance. Mickey knows exactly how Ian likes his coffee and always leaves him a cup on the bedside table when Ian’s going to get up soon after he leaves for work. He knows Ian’s medical history by heart and did some unspecified favor for a pharmacist just in case they ever need emergency meds without a prescription. Isn’t that a kind of romance?

Isn’t it romantic when Mickey comes home from working all day at a job he hates and helps Ian up to bed? Isn’t it romantic when Mickey makes sure Ian’s got enough to eat, even if it means Mickey himself doesn’t have anything? Isn’t it romantic when Mickey holds Ian’s hand while they’re walking home from the Alibi, four blocks from where Mickey’s dad brutalized him his whole life? Isn’t it romantic that Mickey’s still here, day after day?

Ian’s wide awake now, throat suddenly tight and eyes burning with how much he loves Mickey. And how much Mickey loves _him_. Maybe none of that stuff seems like the height of romance to anyone else. But Ian knows he always comes first with Mickey. There’s nothing Mickey won’t do for him. That seems pretty fucking romantic to Ian.

Mickey comes back from his shower and raises his eyebrows when he sees Ian’s awake. “The whole point of me whispering and helping was you _not_ waking up,” he says, still keeping his voice soft. Because he wants Ian to sleep. Because he worries about Ian being tired. Because he knows how to be soft now, at least with Ian.

Ian’s going to cry. Mickey must see that on his face, because he looks a little alarmed. He crawls into the bed. He still kind of smells like fish, but it’s not overwhelming, and Ian doesn’t think he’d care if Mickey had actual guts all over him right now. Ian pulls Mickey close and kisses him.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Mickey says, almost suspicious. “I love you, too. What the fuck? I just helped you to bed, man. Not like it’s a big deal.”

“It _is_ ,” Ian insists. “Because you do it all the time. You help me to bed and you bring me coffee and you…you love me, Mick.”

“Uh…yeah?” Mickey sounds mystified. “What the fuck you crying over it for?”

“You’re the most romantic guy in the world,” Ian says. Mickey looks almost horrified.

“Romantic?” He echoes. “No, I’m fucking not.”

“Yes, you are,” Ian says. “You do nice shit for me all the time. Just because you want to. Because you want me to be happy and feel good.”

“So?” Mickey asks, baffled. “The fuck’s that got to do with romance?”

“That _is_ romance,” Ian says, suddenly desperate for Mickey to understand. “I don’t care if you’re not buying me presents and taking me to fancy restaurants. You took me to some diner on the side of the highway because you thought I’d like brunch. I mean, fuck, you tell me you love me every single day. That’s—God, Mickey, that’s amazing.”

“I don’t know what the fuck’s going on right now,” Mickey admits.

“I’m just feeling like…” Ian shakes his head and brushes a hand through Mickey’s wet hair. “I want to scream at everybody how amazing you are. They don’t _get_ it. They think romance is about big shit. And yeah, you did that too, you know. You came back for me. And you planned that trip to the lake house. That’s romantic! But the little every day shit is romantic, too. You do tons of that stuff.”

Mickey drops his head onto the pillow and peeks up at Ian with one eye. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So?”

“So I love you,” Ian says with a shrug. “Lip said—”

“Ah,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “Should’ve guessed this is his fucking fault.” There’s no love lost between Mickey and Lip. It used to bother Ian that his brother and the love of his life don’t get along—still does, sometimes, when it’s right in his face—but they’ve come to a sort of truce, mostly by way of ignoring each other.

“He just said it seemed like I always wanted a guy who’s romantic. And he meant it like you’re not that kind of guy. But then I was thinking about it, and you are. Maybe he just doesn’t know about this kind of romantic.”

Mickey thinks that over for a second. “You know, uh…” He swallows and shrugs. “I planned that, and did the brunch thing—I mean, I knew you’d like it, so that’s why, mostly. But I was thinking ‘bout how you said—you said we never went on a date. And I guess we still never did.”

It takes Ian a second to figure out what Mickey means. Ian doesn’t remember saying they’d never been on a date. But then it comes back to him; Ian remembers blood on their faces, the euphoria from being tipsy and being with Mickey, his arms being wrenched behind his back, and a gun in Mickey’s face when he tried to fight for Ian. He swallows hard. “Yeah.” The air’s heavy for a second. “I mean, unless you count all those meals we had together inside,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Mickey snorts. “Guess for a Milkovich that should count. But I mean—now we did, right? Doesn’t that count? Brunch or whatever?”

“Yeah, Mick, it counts,” Ian promises, choked up. “That was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “No, it wasn’t. All your rich old dudes took you to way better places than that. Even the lake house probably wasn’t as good as some of the hotels they took you to.”

“No,” Ian says, shaking his head. “That was so much better.”

Mickey huffs. “Ian.”

“Mickey,” Ian shoots back. He pulls Mickey in close again. “It was better ‘cause it was you. Everything’s better with you.”

He can see that hit Mickey like a ton of bricks. Mickey swallows hard, blinking fast. “So I can do anything and you can’t complain?” He tries to joke. His voice wobbles a little. It makes Ian laugh, kind of, in a soft, fond way that almost hurts. Even after all this time, after _prison_ together, Mickey still has his doubts about being good enough for Ian. That part does hurt, because Ian knows it’s his own fault.

“You could give me a titty twister every day for the rest of our lives and it would be okay,” Ian tells him. That makes Mickey laugh. Ian leans in and whispers, “I’m still gonna complain though.”

Mickey laughs again. “Yeah, you complain a lot.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” Ian says, because no one complains as much as Mickey. It’s just how he acknowledges things—he talks about the weather by complaining about it, he talks about work by complaining about it, he talks about Yevgeny by complaining about not seeing him enough. Once he gets a complaint or two out of the way, he says what’s really on his mind.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says without heat, still burrowed in close to Ian’s chest. “Guess if that shit counts as romantic you are, too,” he says. “Letting me in the bed when I smell like fucking fish. Moving the pillow how I like it. Making food for me and shit. Checking to make sure I'm okay all the time. Fucking me ‘til I scream.”

The last part catches Ian off guard and makes him laugh. “I’m not sure that one counts.”

“Don’t I get to decide what counts?” Mickey demands. “Counts to me.”

Ian laughs again, but he presses his face into Mickey’s hair. “Okay,” he says, feeling kind of sheepish and kind of proud. They’re quiet for a minute, until Ian says, “I just wanted to tell you, I guess. I know—I know you put in effort every day. I know you probably don’t want me to acknowledge that, but I think I should. It’s important to me, Mick. I like it.”

Mickey’s not meeting his eyes now, insecure even in praise, though Ian can see him filing it away to think about some more later. “Alright,” he says. “I—yeah. You too, you know.”

“I know,” Ian promises, because Mickey does make that clear, even if he can’t say it out loud.

“Can we sleep now?” Mickey asks.

“No,” Ian says.

“No?” Mickey echoes.

“No,” Ian repeats. “Because it’s really fucking hot and you’re too close. Get off me.”

Mickey blinks up at him and then huffs. “The romance is fucking over, huh?”

“There’s no romance in July in bed,” Ian says solemnly. “Guess you’ll have to surprise me and take me back to the lake house.”

“You don’t get to plan the surprise you want,” Mickey grouses, rolling his eyes. He’s still on top of Ian.

“But then you’d know I’ll like it,” Ian points out.

“Hey, dipshit, I already know what you’ll like,” Mickey reminds him, making Ian crack up laughing.

“Romance,” Ian proclaims. Then he shoves Mickey off him.

“You’re the fucking worst,” Mickey says, all muffled in the sheets where Ian pushed him.

Ian presses a kiss into Mickey’s shoulder. “I love you, too,” he whispers. Mickey doesn’t say anything, but Ian sees the smile that overtakes his face. It’s sweet and a little shy. He rolls onto his back, takes Ian's hand, and closes his eyes. Ian watches him for a second, watches the way his chest moves when he breathes, the way his eyelashes flutter as his eyes move, watches the smile still playing at his mouth.

Ian feels his answering smile grow. He raises Mickey’s hand to his lips and kisses him. Mickey laughs without opening his eyes, and Ian’s happiness doesn’t feel like it’ll make him burst—it calms him. He’s happy and loved. He’s comfortable and safe. He squeezes Mickey’s hand, and they go to sleep the way they’ll wake up, the way they have for a long time, the way they will for the rest of their lives, the way Ian likes best—together.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a vision of Mickey carrying Ian to bed and wrote 12000 words to get to it lmao
> 
> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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